Tension
by ObsessedRomantic
Summary: A missing-scene PWP drabble about what might have happened if Ryan and Taylor had run into each other during the week she was hiding out under Seth's bed. Brief mention of SS,SK; entirely smutty RT.


**TENSION **

**Disclaimer: **I do not own them in the fic, I do not own them in ……. Now you know why I don't write more poetry. Still not making money, still just writing for fun and feedback.

**Summary: **Just a missing-scene drabble, possibly PWP, about what might have happened if Taylor and Ryan had run into each other during the week she was hiding under Seth's bed.

**Warning: **Lots of graphic smutty goodness (and angry!Ryan), so make sure you have that cold shower ready!

**A/N: **Remind me to never again tranq smut bunnies. Not only did the little buggers wake up hornier than ever, they were _pissed_. That's totally where this came from, not from my watching S4 (over and over) like a stalker and wondering about all the Townwoody off-camera goodness we were denied.

**Wednesday**

It was nice of Seth to let me stay, to keep it secret from his parents. It wasn't just pity that motivated him, either; the poor boy needed someone to talk to. After sneaking into his room during the lunch hour (and the six-hour jet-lag nap after that), I'd gotten a three hour briefing on everything that was going on in his life during my clandestine dinner. The talk was a small price to pay for his hiding me out, I thought, and it certainly helped distract me from my** own** problems.

My suggestion that he could heal the broken trust between himself and his brother by finding Volchok and not stopping the confrontation (this time) didn't go over so well. I think he expected me to be as worried about Ryan killing the idiot who'd caused Marissa's death as the rest of them were. But no matter how different they said he'd become, I knew there was no way he'd go **that** far. It wasn't their fault they didn't have the faith I did, however; because they also didn't have the **memory** I did. Hands shaking, eyes bleak and knuckles bleeding, returning the after-party money to me (in total, eerie silence) with a set expression somewhat closer to fear than anger. On a hunch, I'd checked the hospital emergency rooms and, sure enough, the surf Nazi had been admitted with severe injuries, the result of a vicious fight gone horribly wrong.

Ryan had seen the abyss, that night, and stepped back from it. No matter what had happened since, he'd never get that close again.

He'd never kill.

Beat the stuffing out of, yes; Volchok would probably end up in the hospital, most likely in traction; but to kill him? No. There was no convincing my host of that, though; and apparently not even the young man in question believed that the death of that social reject wasn't what he was after.

I sighed at the slats under Seth's mattress, wishing that there was something I could do about his problems. Summer still hadn't called, so I couldn't resume my role as counselor to **that** relationship. I couldn't help him with his girlfriend, he didn't listen to my ideas about his brother, and that only left me with** my** troubles to think about. This was bad, because not only did thinking about facing my mother leave my entire body tense with fear; but remembering how I'd gotten into this mess brought Henri to mind, which just made me horny. I hadn't been laid in the month since my very drunken wedding night, and I was starting to feel the results of ignoring my extremely healthy sex drive. Add in the adrenaline from the fear-response and I knew I had a real problem. When I reached the point of wondering if I should offer the boy snoring (Mon Dieu, did he snore; Summer must be a deep sleeper) above me some comfort-sex I knew I had to get out of there.

Sliding out from underneath the bed, I snuck through the house towards the kitchen. Chocolate, there had to be chocolate in this place somewhere, I reasoned. I took off my pink pajama top and laid it on the counter, feeling overheated, and started my search with the freezer, hoping to find ice cream. The chill was refreshing on my skin, and I was just reaching for the (yes!) fudge ripple when an angry voice whispered my name.

''Taylor.'' I jumped, nearly slamming the freezer door shut on my other hand. Ryan stood by the table in a pair of sweatpants and a wife-beater, feet bare, scowling at me.

''What are you doing here?'' I whispered back, frozen into place by more than shock. He was so **hot**, glaring at me, his muscles tense and rippling under his skin. These were not the thoughts I should be having, I should be thinking of some reason for my being there; but I couldn't help it. He'd always been something of a hunk, but Dios Mio, **now**? Since graduation, he'd gotten a little taller, and had obviously been working out, because he looked solid and fit (and hot, did I mention hot?). Seriously, Greek sculptors would probably drown in their own drool if _he_ was their model.

''What the fuck are you **wearing**?'' He had a point, the black silk teddy with matching pajama bottoms wasn't the best thing to protest one's innocent intentions in. Not to mention that my skin was heating up from the intensity of his livid gaze, my nipples hardening despite my best efforts to tell them not to. His jaw clenched and I knew he was seconds away from calling the wrath of the house (Kirsten) down on me for the suspected seduction of his brother.

''I'm hiding out from my mother.'' I let go the freezer door to rest my hand on the pink top, calling his attention to it and the fact that I wasn't, in fact, the hugest slut. That honor belonged to Summer's weirdo roommate, back in Rhode Island. ''And I always sleep in this.'' Not entirely true, sometimes I slept in the nude, but only when I had company. I wondered if** he'd** like some company, part of his problem was probably a vast build-up of sexual tension; because I was betting he hadn't been laid since………. Jesu Cristo, since **Sadie**, before the bonfire. No **won**der. .

Okay, stop that train of thought right there, missy. Look at him (without imaging him naked, darn it!), does he **look** like he needs that, right now?

Well, he certainly needed **something**. He was wound so tightly, entire body almost vibrating, that I was afraid he'd either shatter or explode from trying to contain everything. There was sweat beading his skin, he must've been hitting that punching bag Seth had told me about. It didn't look like it was helping, but it did explain why he'd come into the kitchen. I retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge and stepped out past the counter, next to the stools, holding it out to him. He'd have to come a little closer to me to get it, and I saw his gaze travel over me once more before he did so.

''Thanks.'' It was a surly sort of politeness, an ingrained response he in no way meant sincerely. This close, though, I could smell his musky scent and the intent behind his automatic civility was the last thing on my mind. Nor was water the only thing on his, not anymore, not with the way he was staring at me with hungry fascination.

''I can help.'' I whispered softly, letting my fingers trail along his hand when he grabbed the water. Ryan twitched away from the contact, eyes narrowing as his temper frayed a bit.

''I don't** want** to talk, and I certainly don't need anything from** you**.'' He hissed at me scornfully. I wasn't hurt by his words, because I knew he was just lashing out to try and keep me at a distance. Besides, he didn't step back, made no move to escape from my presence. I stepped into him, close enough to feel the heat of his body on my skin, making the pulse between my legs stronger as I saw (with a split-second glance down) that there was a definite bulge in the appropriate area of his sweats.

''Who said anything about talking?'' I murmured, meeting his burning blue eyes frankly. I was aching to touch him, so I rested both hands on his hips, making my intentions very clear. He dropped the un-opened bottle onto the floor and grabbed me by the shoulders, slamming me into the wall by the fridge, holding me there with his body pressed firmly to mine.

''You don't want to do this.'' He snarled quietly, voice gone hoarse and shaking, his hands trembling as he fought the animal desire flaring between us. ''You don't want to piss me off, right now.'' I sighed, because he really had no idea how much I loved, absolutely **loved**, the intensity of angry sex. Good thing I wasn't wearing panties, because they'd be soaked by now, just thinking about it.

''Right now, Ryan;** sunlight** could piss you off.'' I informed him, sliding my hands (which had remained in place on his hips) up under his shirt. His breath hitched and he shuddered, eyes going dark as my fingers pulled at his back, encouraging him to keep pinning me in place. I arched my head back, eyes closed, relishing the feel of what had to be a truly impressive erection, pulsing in _just_ the right spot, between my thighs. ''Let go.'' I whispered; pleading, promising. ''I can take it.''

There was a strangled curse, half a moan, and then his lips were crushing mine, tongue entering my mouth before I even had a chance to register the kiss. His hands went quickly down my arms, slipping beneath my teddy and raising it back up, forcing me to lift my arms (and break our lip-lock) so he could remove the fabric. Ryan's chest was wonderfully hard, rubbing firmly against my aching nipples. I was a step behind his swift actions, trying to lift his shirt up as he moved his mouth over my jaw, my neck; dragging his teeth along my shoulder.

I forgot all about getting him naked when his lips closed around my areola, sucking fiercely. I was too busy trying to muffle my gasps in his neck, my hands clenching between the cotton and his back as his fingers slid under my pants to cup my ass, pressing me even tighter to him. There was an actual whimper, and he pulled his head back, looking at me darkly. His grip shifted, lifting me up into a better angle, which was confusing, because we both still had our bottoms on (and he still had his shirt, darn it all).

A truly evil smirk flicked across his features, and he pushed forward, rubbing his length hard against my clit, making me moan with desire. He couldn't torture me like this, he wouldn't…….. I dropped my hands to the waist of his sweats, tugging downwards in my sudden desperation. He chuckled, cradling my face in his hands and kissing hard, thrusting forward again. I groaned into his mouth, louder when he did it yet again, hands on my breasts, teasing my nipples with his calluses. It was a trick, because he only did it to lower his grip once more to my waist, inside the circle of my arms, forcing me to abandon my efforts to remove his sweats.

''Ryan….'' I begged, feeling my orgasm approaching like a freight train. It was pathetic, how needy I sounded, but I wanted to feel him thrusting **inside** me, not throbbing against me.

''Shut up.'' He growled, covering my mouth with another hard kiss, continuing his thrusting with a slow and steady rhythm. I came, feeling like I wanted to cry despite the pleasure, because he needed the release just as much as I did, and I was beyond eager to give it to him.

My disappointment didn't last long; he was pulling my pants down, just far enough to clear my thighs. His sweatpants (and boxers, my kind of man) followed, the same economic distance. I'd been right, he was **very** well endowed, the tip weeping with need. Tempted as I was to drop to my knees and give him the time of his life (and take a little revenge for his teasing, I admit it); I didn't have the time. I **barely** had time to register what he was doing, reactions slowed in the aftermath of my recent climax.

Before I knew it, he was shoving himself deep inside me, the friction within setting off white bursts of pleasure in my brain. I think I actually stopped breathing for a minute, so numb from the sensation of having Ryan Atwood sheathing himself into me completely. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, clasping him around the shoulders with trembling arms as he withdrew and plunged, withdrew and plunged. My legs wouldn't move, trapped by the fabric, unable to wrap around his waist like I wanted them to. The slight bondage aspect of how limited my movements were, being fucked up against the kitchen wall, only made it even better.

Orgasm was such a mild word for what exploded within me, fingers dug into his shoulders, his breath warm on my neck as he came with a soft grunt. Our breathing sounded so harsh in the quiet of the house, I wondered if we'd disengage to find the Cohen's staring at us, rubbing sleep from their eyes. I tasted cotton on my tongue and realized that I didn't have to worry about having woken anyone. From the wet circle around one shoulder of his wife-beater, I'd apparently filled my mouth with his shirt to silence my cries. This was good news, because I could be very vocal (I know, big surprise) in my ecstasy. He pulled free, holding me up by the shoulders until he was certain I could stand on my own.

Without a word, he pulled his underwear and pants back into place and turned away. I thought he was going to say something when he paused, but he only bent down and retrieved the water bottle he'd dropped on the floor (before giving me some of the best sex of my** life**); heading back to the pool house. Seeing the way his shoulders were still tight, the way he still sort of _stalked_ his way across the patio; I knew there was more to be done.

--xxx--

**Friday**

It'd been two days, and I couldn't stop thinking about it.

The bag swung slightly on it's hook from the force of my blow, Metallica blaring in the background. Everyone was at work, and Julie's stupid fucking detective **still** didn't have a clue where Volchok had gone; so it was either this or find out where in the house Taylor was and…………

There I went again.

I'd thought I'd been acting like an asshole when I'd nailed Chloe, but this was a whole new level of bad behavior. It didn't help to remember that she hadn't **once** tried to stop me, or even to protest; that every move she'd made had only been to encourage me, that she'd given every sign of enjoying it. It** really** didn't help to recall that, for those heated moments in the kitchen, I hadn't felt angry or betrayed or depressed or anything but a wild, barely controllable lust. There hadn't been _room_ to feel anything else until after.

I increased the pace of my fists, feeling guilty (again) for the fact that I'd actually felt a little **better**, after. I'd been able to relax and just sleep, for instance, unlike last night (like a lot of nights); when I'd tossed and turned with nightmare after nightmare. My methods of getting through this thing while living at the bar hadn't been good ones (I was lucky not to have permanent damage from the cage) but at least** then** I hadn't been considering fucking some girl (repeatedly) just so I could remain stable long enough to finish this. I had to find **something**, though, because every blow just emphasized what I was finally coming to realize.

It

Wasn't

Fucking

**Working**

_Not anymore._ The canvas was cool on my forehead when I leaned forward, steadying the bag between my fists with my eyes closed. My gasping breaths had more to do with the impulses I was struggling against than any effort I'd wasted with the thing. I wouldn't go to her, I decided; I wouldn't make a connection with one** more** person, only to have them ripped away by chance or choice or some coked up drunken asshole with worse judgment than Trey, which I'd never thought was possible. I** wouldn't**, I **couldn't**.

Familiar fingers touched my shoulder and all the determination behind my recent decision vanished. I was such a jackass, too, because I didn't move to stop her as she ran her hands over my bare back caressingly, replacing the angry tightness there with a different kind of tension. I just wanted to feel **good**, for a change; and I knew she felt really, really good. Seriously, that one screw was some of the best sex I'd ever had, and the Chino part of me was eager for more, lots more.

Her hands slid around to my stomach, splaying across the muscles there, her bare chest pressed against my back. I dropped my arms to my side, standing up straight, letting her palms roam over my front as her hot little body burned (nakedly?) behind me. Her lips traveled along my shoulders, the back of my neck; her fingers dipped beneath my sweats to stroke my hips, caress my balls and (already hardening) shaft. I leaned my head back, eyes still closed, feeling her nipples in my shoulder blades, letting her have her way with me.

My pants hit the floor, bunching around my ankles. I hadn't meant to go regimental today, but it had just seemed like too much work to put on underwear when no one was home and I wasn't going anywhere. She seemed to like it, pressing herself even more firmly against my back (I'd been right, she was naked, the hollow of her hips warmly cradling my ass) as she wrapped her right hand around my dick and started to pump, left hand on my chest. For balance, I think, because she was almost merging with my skin, pushing herself into my back as eagerly as she was jerking me off.

I reached back, blindly feeling for her. Once I had that smooth silk under my fingers, I inched my left hand between us, under her left arm; the angle a little hard to manage given our position. Her clit was a swollen nub, the tender flesh already damp. My two fingers slid easily into her folds, making her groan, teeth dragging where my neck met my shoulder. She bucked into my hand, lifting her right leg to wrap it forward around my knee, increasing the pace of her fingers when mine moved deeper in. I sped up their motion, feeling for the nub within as I pressed my palm down on the one without.

We groaned in unison, her cheek flaming against my neck, riding my hand even as she stroked me closer to orgasm. Our little contest of who could make whom come first was looking like a victory for me, her inner walls tightening, when she suddenly raised her head and pressed her lips to a spot just behind (and a little below) my ear. My balls tightened, gut clenched, and I made a hell of a mess on the bag, my sweats, the floor, and especially, her right hand. My own fingers were soaking, she'd apparently followed me over the edge.

Disengaging was difficult, both of us a little dizzy in the aftermath. Turning around, I saw to my (belated) relief that she'd lowered the blinds before starting this. Taylor's clothes were piled neatly (would they dare be anything else?) on the ottoman by the door, which I was hoping she'd locked. Right now, she was picking my soiled sweatpants up off the floor and wiping her hand on the fabric, cleaning off the bag as well. Practical, and I really should have been practical as well, and gone to check the door; but seeing her walking unashamedly naked around the pool house (looking for the hamper) burned away all common sense.

She was just discarding the sweats when I came up behind her, spinning her around and grabbing her by the shoulders. Her lips were just as sweet as I remembered, her mouth just as hot around my tongue. With both of us naked, her body felt even more fantastic, and I backed towards the bed, hands roaming over every inch of her I could reach. When I felt the mattress under one foot, I lowered myself back, pulling her down on top of me.

I no longer cared if this was right or wrong, I just wanted to feel something good; something not pain or anger or grief or despair or shame.

Taylor would have to be satisfied with feeling good too; because I was far too messed up to give her anything else.

--xxx—

**Monday**

It was working well, this bleeding off of stress through sex. Not just for **him**, either. Now that I could think of Henri-Michel without longing for his touch (whatever his faults, he'd been a decent lover), the situation seemed a little more fixable. He would _gladly_ grant me a divorce, I felt; freeing himself of the crazy American mademoiselle he'd married in a fit of overly romantic fervor. I'd just slipped the paperwork into the Cohen's mail on my way to the pool house, already feeling better about things; when I saw Ryan coming my way.

Any thoughts that he was looking for me died as I saw how tense and uneasy (and **clothed**) he was. So much for spending today as we had Friday, I thought sulkily, remembering the hours we'd lost in sweaty exercise, screwing like bunnies from mid-morning until early evening. I'd barely made it back to my hidey-hole under his brother's bed before the first of the Cohen's had gotten home. The hushed and hurried encounters late the subsequent three nights (more properly, very early mornings) were barely enough to tide me over; but I could tell he appreciated the release, even though he hadn't said a word to me since telling me to 'shut up', during our first go-round.

''Someone see Volchok?'' I guessed. From the way his jaw was clenching, it could be nothing else. He nodded briskly, jingling his car keys pointedly until I stepped aside. At least he no longer looks like he's about to self-destruct, I congratulated myself. He may be pissed as hell, but he's** thinking** through the haze, which improves his chances of survival astronomically. ''I hope you find him.'' He stopped dead in his tracks, turning his head to stare at me incredulously. I could tell he'd thought I had been about to give him the same speech as his family had; about not killing the guy. I shrugged, but didn't look away. ''Until you confront him, you'll be stuck in this limbo of rage and nothing will **ever** be over.'' Ryan blinked a few times before nodding again, apparently lost in thought. He needed a little boost, I thought, so I stepped up and kissed him softly on the cheek. ''I'll be in the pool house.'' Just in case it goes bad, or it's not actually _him_; I thought but didn't say, closing the door firmly after my lover.

I** wanted** the tip to be Volchok, despite the fact that it would probably mean the end of our little get-togethers. He'd be happier, with this behind him; and he'd feel a lot less guilty when I stopped being his stress-reliever. I knew he felt guilty about what we were doing, I'd see the occasional flare of it in his eyes, when I was putting my clothes back on (I always seemed to end up naked, around him) afterwards. If I thought about it too much, I felt just as guilty. I mean, he wasn't exactly in any kind of shape, emotionally speaking, to handle what this was becoming; and I was obviously neurotic (and utterly insane) to believe it was **becoming** anything. A whirlwind marriage to a man I'd known two weeks wasn't enough, apparently. No, I had to read 'meaning' into my sexually helping some guy (who I'd lusted after since sophomore year, but still) reduce his stress while simultaneously using **him** to get over the carnal hold my husband had over me.

Yes, it's** obviously** kismet.

The sarcastic voice in my head sounded more like Seth than my mother, which was a relief. I'd had far too many nightmares (not** lately**, but the other people on the Concorde hadn't appreciated my hysterics) about the woman's reaction to my irrational behavior to be imaging her catty remarks while I was awake. Those scenarios could remain in my subconscious, thank you very much, until I got up the nerve to face Veronica Townsend herself. That thought made me stiffen with fear; and I was actually eyeing the punching bag (wondering how one went about using it), when the door to the pool house slammed open.

One look at his thunderous expression, and I knew the asshole surfer sighting had been a false alarm.

His jacket hit the floor, I barely had time to stand up before he was crushing his mouth onto mine, grabbing me by my ass and pressing our bodies together. Heat swirled below my belly, I pushed his jacket off eagerly as he lowered me to the bed. Clothes vanished in the surge of our mindless desire; I seriously couldn't determine the sequence of how we ended up naked, still only kissing, with our bodies almost fused together.

Feeling his hard length sliding into me once more, I arched up to take him deeper, clutching his forearms where he'd braced himself above me and wrapping my legs around his waist. Groaning, he dropped down onto his elbows, changing the angle of his violent thrusting. Nothing, absolutely nothing; could compare to the sheer ecstasy of being royally fucked by Ryan Atwood. I nearly came, right then, just from knowing who he was and what it was that we were doing.

He nipped at my skin, dragging his teeth gently over my jaw, my neck, my shoulder; devouring me. I couldn't hold back my climax when he sucked the flesh to the right of the hollow of my throat, where my collarbone began. He'd only **kissed** there before, but he must've realized it was my spot from my reaction when he'd done so. Now he was sucking harder at the area, teeth digging in. Matching his forceful thrusts with the arching of my own hips, I dug my fingers into his shoulders and prayed that I had enough high-cut blouses to cover the impressive hickey I was going to have.

My whimpering groans seemed to excite him, because his thrusting got more rapid, his panting moans (next to my ear) more breathless. Finally, we were tensing into each other, united in the familiar flare of blinding climax. I smoothed my hands over his shoulders, head, and neck soothingly; relishing the feel of him as he rested his body against me, wishing the moment of complete relaxation he experienced just after orgasm could last, for his sake. All too soon, he'd be tensing back up again, caught up once more in the grip of his anger and pain. I knew he'd reached the end of his moment when he started kissing hungrily at my neck, moving down to begin mouthing the skin of my breasts.

Fantastic as the sex was, it wasn't my main reason for being there, writhing under his lustful ministrations.

It was knowing that the comfort of my body brought him a small measure of peace, however brief, that returned me over and over to his arms.

--xxx—

**Tuesday**

There came a point when I just couldn't feel guilty anymore.

A limit to how much of that emotion I could take, I guess. Although, where was that limit when I was gasping my way free of a nightmare?

Probably it had more to do with how much she obviously enjoyed my fucking her senseless than any bullshit about emotional limits. I'd definitely been watching too many early morning talk shows to even come **up** with such a theory, but the idiots on those programs were a good distraction while I waited for the Cohen's to give up trying to talk to me for the day and for Taylor to sneak down out of Seth's room and into…….

The door clicked, and I turned the tube off, standing up as she came in and locked the door behind her. There was always a moment, in the beginning, when we both paused; kind of a weird game of erotic chicken, I suppose. Today she was wearing a robe (thankfully, not one of my brother's) and knowing she most likely didn't have anything on under it was what set off this one.

Our eyes locked, she undid the belt and let the terrycloth fall; revealing that yes, she hadn't been wearing anything underneath. I swallowed thickly, licking my lips; the pulse of lust in my blood far more preferable than the anger that had been there, seconds before. She flowed seductively across the room towards me, hazel eyes burning as they took in my boxers and shirt. Hell, there was no point in putting anything else on when I was just going to end up bare-assed anyway. Speaking of which………

I pulled off the wife-beater and tossed it aside, taking the impact of her naked body on my bare chest as we kissed each other with desperate hunger; just as if we hadn't spent all day (well, most of it) yesterday fucking each other's brains out. She didn't wrap her arms around my head like she usually did, didn't do more than rest her hands on my shoulders, didn't press her body into mine like she was trying to fuse us together. Just as I was wondering what was wrong, she started caressing my chest, trailing her lips down my neck and onto my pecs. A sudden burst of premonition explained everything, and I was panting with eager anticipation by the time her hands reached the waist of my boxers, her tongue teasing (why the hell did **that** feel good?) one of my nipples.

She knelt to remove the cloth, kissing my stomach, making me groan, my hands twitching towards her head. Her gaze locked on my already hard length as she freed it, her fingers ghosting over the tip and down to trace the scar beneath. I couldn't take my eyes off her: her lips closing over the head, hands feathering touches all over my groin, eyes fluttering closed as she took me further into her hot mouth. Shit, she was good at this. Her tongue moved over and around my shaft as she sucked me farther in with no teeth and, apparently, no gag reflex.

My body pulsed wildly, everything centered on the sensation of her deep-throating me, the vibrations of her moans of pleasure caused me to wind my fingers into her hair. I wasn't gonna last long with this ache building in my gut, nor with her hollowing her cheeks like she was. Groaning raggedly, I started to slowly pump my dick in and out between her lips, almost losing it when I saw her knees spreading, one hand dropping to finger her pussy while the other massaged my balls expertly. I wished for a third hand, suddenly, or the ability to be two places at once, because, good as this was, I wanted to** fuck **her so bad it was actually making me shake.

Or maybe that was the orgasm that shot through me like lightning, my head arching back in the force of it.

I took my hands away from her head, gasping for breath and trembling in the wake of a climax so powerful I was almost afraid she'd choked. When I looked down, however, Taylor was licking me clean with long swipes of her tongue, both hands running up my legs (the fingers of one a little sticky), over my hips to clutch desperately at my ass as she whimpered with need. Looked like I wasn't the only one who'd come, recently. Time for that fuck I'd been thinking about while she was blowing me.

I lifted her up by a grip on her upper arms, dodging her lips to mouth her neck, to kiss my way across her shoulder. Trailing fingers of one hand across her collarbone, (outlining the mark I'd given her, right on her 'spot') I moved around behind her; cupping her shoulders, kissing the back of her neck and pushing her gently towards the bed. She knelt, sending me a sultry look over one shoulder when my palms pressed against her back, encouraging her to bend over.

Taylor got onto all fours, fisting the sheets and spreading her knees apart. I moved my lips up her spine, running my hands over her body, avoiding the one spot I knew she was dying for me to touch. Kneeling between her legs, I draped myself over her, continuing to caress the warm silk of her skin, concentrating most of my attention on her breasts. She was squirming under me, moving her ass seductively against my re-awakening member. It wasn't long before I was hard again; I plunged into her folds with a groan muffled into her shoulder blade, making her gasp my name.

She was so goddamn tight, felt so goddamn good; I had to fight hard not to pound away……wait, **why**? She'd shown every indication of enjoyment whenever I lost it a little, why not go all out? There was no way she wouldn't stop me if she wasn't having a good time, after all; and she'd said she could take it, hadn't she? Shit, what if she **could**? If the sex was good now, what would it be like if I was able to let go entirely? The thought pushed me closer to the edge, wanting to try it became an actual **need**. I slid my hands off her breasts, rolling her nipples between my fingers as I went, taking a solid grip on her hips.

The first savage thrust made me glad I'd straightened up, because she threw her head back so hard I thought the cry she made was from snapping her neck. My second thrust brought a pleased groan, her knuckles going white around the sheets and face disappearing behind a shield of auburn as her head dropped back down between her trembling arms. I continued to move faster and harder, fingers digging into her flesh cruelly; unaware (at the time) that she was gonna end up with bruises to go with her hickey. I was dimly aware of her shoving her hips backwards, leaning down onto her elbows to take me deeper, energetically matching my increasingly violent pace.

We came at the same time (which I was starting to notice we did a **lot**), her shouts merging with my grunting moans. Falling forward over her back; I groaned the first words I'd spoken to her since that first time, in the Cohen's kitchen.

''_**Fuck**_, Taylor.''

--xxx—

**Wednesday**

This year, I hated Thanksgiving.

Okay, so I hated it every year, but **this** year the stupid celebration seemed especially vile.

Just thinking about a holiday that was supposed to be spent with family made my head hurt, and when I combined the main thrust of the day (eating oneself sick) with my mother's observations about my weight……….. Well, I guess I just didn't see what I had to be thankful for.

**This** year, though; **this** year was the worst.

_**This **_year I was avoiding my mother (and thoughts of my husband) by hiding under the bed of a boy I'd crushed on in high school (whose girlfriend might be dumping him) while having (life-altering, mind-blowing) clandestine sex (adultery, call a horse a horse) with his (emotionally distant) brother.

And the Cohen's **still** didn't know I was even in the country, let alone their house.

**And** the four-day weekend meant that today was the last day I could spend twisted sweatily together with Ryan.

Yes, okay, we could probably continue sneaking around; but the longer it went on the more likely we were to get caught. Sooner or later, someone would get up for a midnight snack (more probable with leftover turkey in the fridge) and that would be that.

Which was why I was chancing discovery by hovering at the top of the stairs, wearing only the robe Seth had loaned me, shifting from foot to foot as I waited (not very patiently) for the Cohen's to leave. **Finally**, Newport's only stable couple went to work, followed only minutes later by their son; because I'd told him I wanted a 'proper breakfast' and that required access to the kitchen. Well, it **was** true; if I was fasting, _nothing_ was definitely a proper breakfast.

Ryan was coming out of the shower when I got to the pool house, towel wrapped low around his hips. He had to come shut and lock the door for me, frozen as I was by the image of him so clad. It's not like you haven't seen him before, I scolded myself; wearing a** lot **less and **doing** a lot more. It didn't seem to matter, my mouth was dry and I could barely breath, staring at his still-damp form. Mon Dieu, wouldn't I just love to see **that **every morning……….

He took my hand and led me over to the ottoman, sitting down in front of me. I thought for a disappointed moment that he was going to say something about not needing the release anymore, about being back in control; but he just locked gazes with me and opened my robe. My skin tingled under his calloused fingers, his blue eyes still fixed on my hazel ones as he rubbed both thumbs in circles over my nipples. I let the terrycloth fall to the floor, baring me to him completely, surrendering to him.

''Taylor.'' He murmured against my stomach, and I whimpered; turned on by the commanding desire in his voice, the lack of his usual anger. Oh God, if he didn't need the release of tension, did that mean that he actually **wanted** me?

''Ryan.'' I meant to whisper it, but he blew on my clit, just then, and I **moaned** his name, instead. He seemed pleased at my reaction, cupping my ass and pulling his target closer to his mouth.

The first dragging touch of his tongue was ecstasy; I had to grab onto his shoulders to stay upright in the roar of pleasure that swept through me like a hurricane. Up till now, our foreplay had been a little………..absent. Not counting the blowjob, or the mutual jerk-off on Friday; mostly we just screwed like (as I'd said before) wild bunnies. It hadn't mattered, because just being around each other seemed to get us ready to go and it certainly hadn't dimmed **my** enthusiasm. _Now_, though…………

When I tried to thrust my hips forward, groaning desperately because his tongue remained **out**side instead of in; he tightened his arms, locking me into place. I dug my fingers into his flesh, unable to keep from watching him take his revenge on me for the oral sex I'd sprung on him, yesterday. Ryan sucked on my clit, blue eyes sparkling as he drank in my reaction and lapped up my juices. My body started to shake, the way he was staring at me heightened the feel of his mouth between my legs; the tip of his tongue darted in and I twitched, gasping with pleasure, his finger sliding in to stroke against my g-spot.

Coming with his gaze locked on mine was even more intense than usual, I could barely stay upright and the son of a bitch wasn't stopping; he just kept licking and sucking, probing me with his tongue and the occasional finger. My second climax began, and he pulled back suddenly; tugging me down into a straddling position and shoving his hips upward (the towel having fallen away, probably while I was creaming all over his face) to pierce me once again with his hardness.

I screamed, no other word for it, at the delicious sensation of being penetrated in the midst of an orgasm. His arms were around me, holding me upright and gripping my shoulders for leverage as he thrust himself repeatedly upwards, matching my rhythm as I lost myself in the blinding passion of riding him. Barely aware of anything else but the satisfying friction between my legs, my hands alternately caressed and clutched at his skin, my vision hazy. My endorphin-dizzy head fell forward, it just seemed natural to kiss him; a move intended to be tender blurred into scorching sensuality by tasting myself on his lips. His groan pushed it even higher; for him as well, I think, because his upward thrusts got shorter, his strong arm (wrapped around my waist) locking me into place so that he could bring us both to a crashing finish. A single touch of his free hand on the bundle of soaked nerve endings, and we fell into bliss, vibrating against each other as we cried out in lip-locked ecstasy.

Resting my forehead on his, I had just enough brain cells left to wrap my shaky legs around his waist when he stood. His strength was impressive, to say the least; he supported my entire weight in our tangled position, walking us the brief distance over to the bed. There was an odd air to his actions, as if his reasons for doing this had somehow changed. The expression on his face when he lowered me onto the mattress was surprisingly clear of anything resembling anger or grief or pain; a calm look, well-met in the unhurried enjoyment of his movements. There were no shadows (and no guilt, that was new as well) in his cerulean eyes as he gently disentangled my limbs (caressing them, planting soft kisses on the pulse points of my arms) from around his body, staring into my soul with a clear blue look of………….tenderness? desire? Surely not love.

But for the first time, I felt like Ryan was actually seeing **me**, and that the only thing on his mind (the only girl in the room) was Taylor Townsend.

--xxx—

_The end._


End file.
